I am the center of the cycle
too close to look it
eye to eye
too distant to see
the edge.
Close enough to touch
but far enough
for that to feel improper --
I am autumn
rolling off of your skin
dry leaves
decomposing
in reverent
anticipation.   

They made oxygen from moon dust
somehow squeezed air from
earth that isn't even
and if I understood this alchemy
I'd make the mirror tell you
your own story
but in language that wasn't painful
and at a volume that
turned the air to dust
made simple impossible things
mundane.

The real magic
is making you see the spell
instead of giving speeches
about speaking it,
snuffing the candles
while stealing the breath,
removing the shackles
with some better binding.

We are stacked stones
nervously eying
the rising tide.
We watch the ghosts go
down into the drink
bruised blue and quiet
and never look back.
Cairns 
what were meant
for wayfinders
we are just
old bones
moldering regrets
and at last
silence
and parting.